The Legend of Shadow Link: Distorted in Time
by Stillae
Summary: Dark Link had no where else to go... reduced to a man without a purpose, he was forced to work construction in Kakariko village, empty now that he had no master, no meaning. But now, sixteen months later, he's faced again with the Hero who defeated him..


**Author's Notes and Disclaimer: **I have not seen very many fics in which Dark Link is the center (plenty with Dark Link in them – but almost none focusing entirely on him) so I chose to start one of my own. Forgive me if a few of my facts do not add up with the game – I've adjust a few things (nothing big) for my own uses.

But there will also be a lot of violence, angst, fluff, romance and dramatic revelations and all those gooey, marshmallow things you put in a fanfic s'more. There will no slash (shonen ai, yaoi, whatever you wish to call it) in this fiction… for that form of romance, you'll have to see the other Legend of Zelda fiction I'm working on.

I own none of these characters, nor the environment in which they exist, and I do not intend to gain any monetary rewards from this script. I'm just taking a few characters out of their shoebox to play with them, and do all sorts of indecent things to them.

**Chapter One**

Dark – as he had begun to call himself in light of a few comments from various people in the market remarking how he looked like a 'darker version of Link!' – adjusted his position on the bar stool, fingers loosely holding a large mug filled with ale, froth gathering on the top and dripping from the edges. His eyes, a soft shade of scarlet, were just slightly out of focus: a result of the effects of alcohol.

He had lost a great deal of his 'evil sheen'. Ink-colored hair now becoming a great deal softer, the color fading to a dull ebony; he had lost his hat, so his hair trickled freely to his shoulders. After spending quite a bit of time out in the sunlight, his skin had become a bit less pale, though he was still lacking in color. His leather boots, which rose up to nearly his knees, were caked with mud and dust, the soles thinning out from a great deal of walking. His tunic, once a harsh black, had been bleached by so many hours in the sun, now being a great deal lighter, and very worn. Pale white leggings had become stained and littered with small tears from over-use.

He sat with his shoulder hunched over the bar, looking nothing short of defeated - and rightly so! How long had it been since his master, the great lord Ganondorf, had been cast down by the Hero of Time? Sixteen, seventeen moon cycles? Dark had long-since lost count. It honestly didn't matter anymore; had Dark managed to defeat the blonde brat with the Master Sword, he would have prevented the eventual defeat of his master – but then he would have had to remain in the Water Temple until Ganondorf had found another use for him. On the other hand, now Dark was free, but had no purpose.

He had spent a great deal of time working in Kakariko village, attempting to earn enough to eat, mostly nabbing small construction jobs. It sickened him to be reduced to seeking work with the sweaty, disgusting creatures called 'Hylians' that ought to have all been enslaved by his master. But Dark had no desire to starve, and had long-since grown tired of stealing food – not to mention he grew bored with so many hours during the day without a thing to do – and so he had opted to get a job.

It was difficult, not to mention worthless, work: digging out rocks and tree roots in order to make way for a new building, or fitting shingles onto freshly built roofs, or erecting inner walls. By the end of the day, Dark was drenched and dirty with cement and dirt, and forced to bathe in the river from lack of other locations for such things. He had been given a small bed with the other construction workers, which he loathed to no end, and often spent his night wandering the Grave Yard instead.

Part of Dark was tempted to leave the village and return to the Water Temple, living out eternity within the room he had been fashioned in, as Ganondorf had designed. Never starve, never need to sleep, never die… just exist. Even working and earning an 'honest' life, as he supposedly was now, he felt as though he had no meaning. He did not even – could not – feel the patriotism of his fellow workers, who gained satisfaction in the gradual expansion of the village. He could feel neither joy nor agony in the fact that Hyrule was 'free' of his master, as was he. He could only feel the dull ache of his sore shoulders and arms, the throbbing of a headache, and emptiness that no amount of ale could wash away.

Dark tossed back another deep gulp of the thick, tasteless ale, letting the mug drop back to the bar top a bit harder than was needed. If he could speak, he might have mumbled a morose "damn." But, though he understood speech, he could not produce it himself. Or, he did not want to. He did not give it much thought, since it was hardly required; he only needed to gesture to things and nod, and he went through every day without two-way communication just fine.

"Oy, Aonon," came a gruff voice from beside him, a large, construction-coarsened hand dropping to his aching shoulder. "How's the ale tonigh'?"

Dark, of course, said nothing, merely glanced up at the thick-necked worker as he dropped his heavy weight down onto a stool, which gave a dangerous little crack, trembling under the man's weight. 'Aonon' was some foolish Sheikah who, according to legend, had fallen madly in love with the Princess he was supposed to be protecting, and this weakness eventually led to the Sheikah to be unable to protect her properly, and the princess was murdered; supposedly, Dark looked a great deal like the etchings of Aonon, which were pictured in some of the glass windows of the castle's Temple of the Sheikah. Dark despised the nickname, but he could not communicate his name – or, the word he had adopted as his name; his master had never designated him a name – so he was forced to hear it spoken to him a thousand times each day.

It was vaguely ironic, however, that no one seemed to notice Dark's uncanny resemblance of the Hero of Time, who's form Dark was molded after. Only the people of the market seemed to notice this fact; perha

"I heard Zelda herself is a' comin' with the Hero o' Time," the man said in his gravel-like voice, accepting a massive mug of ale, froth trickling down its sides as he raised it to his wide mouth.

"Bet she'll have the whole armed guard with her, after last week." A slim figure on Dark's other side was fiddling with his own mug of ale, not yet taking a sip; he was the smallest of the construction crew, the only man slimmer and shorter than Dark himself.

"Whatcha mean?"

"Someone tried to break into her private quarters, I heard. They caught 'im – some You-Know-Who enthusiast, lookin' for revenged or something like that."

You-Know-Who was what most of the common people now referred to Ganondorf as; despite him being dead, his very soul destroyed, people were still so frightened of him and the horrors he unleashed, they did not want to speak his name. Dark snorted a bit and downed a good portion of his ale.

The irony was that Dark had been a 'You-Know-Who enthusiast' – created by him, in fact! – yet no one but himself and the Hero of Time knew it. And he had not seen the Hero of Time face to face since he had been defeated by him so long before. Glances and snatches of him, of course, when he wandered into the village from time to time, but Dark had never dared to approach him. And what reason would he have to, anyway?

"Well, we get off work early tomorrow to be able to see 'er, so I'm just fine with all the fuss," grunted one of the workers as he waved for another goblet of ale. "Wouldn't mind shaking hands with the Hero' either."

There was a general murmur of agreement among the dirty, reeking workers, and Dark resisted the urge to snort again. Utter fools. The Hero of Time was no more than a normal mortal, forced into his supposed path of Destiny by a long-dead tree, an annoying and bossy little fairy, and an over-dramatic princess. Dark had seen that when the pair of them had battled. That boy – the Hero – had been no more than a frightened, mindless little child: Dark had seen it in his crystalline eyes. He, too, would have been empty and meaningless, had the world not seized hold of him and thrust him into the battle between Good and Evil.

As the conversation turned to the nightly round of Hero worshipping, each man contributing stories and personal thanks as to the Hero's accomplishments, Dark tossed back the last of his ale and left the tavern. He had no desire to listen to exaggerated feats that the Hero of Time had supposedly accomplished, rumors about his romance with the princess, or how he had saved the world from chaos with his bare hands. It was the same old conversing, and a subject of which Dark hated being exposed to over and over.

The night was dark, but very warm, brushes of wind rustling through some of the sparse trees that still grew tall amid the buildings. The sky was dusted with little diamond stars, stretching as far as Dark could see, like bits of glitter tossed into a vat of ink. He could hear the creak of the wind mill, forever present, as he strode away from the tavern.

Without quite paying attention to where he was wandering, he began to walk towards the fields, ignoring the armor-clad soldier that stood erect and proud, spear clutched in his glove-clad hand, his visor tipped up so that he could see those entering and exiting the village. The guard raised his free hand in greeting – though after so many months of Dark not waving or so much as glancing in return, it was a shock that he bothered.

Hyrule field extended out before him, a wide span of hills with short, yellowing grass, growing brittle because of the intense heat of the Hyrule sun. Intricate patterns of dirt roads trail across the fields, an occasional donkey-drawn cart and traveler walking along the paths during the day; but at night, there is no one. Boulders cropped up here and there over the rolling landscape, tuffs of grass rising up around it, hiding the fallen objects of the past travelers.

If Dark craned his neck, he could almost catch the glossy churn of the waters of Hylia Lake beyond a ridge and the protective iron gate and fencing that bars it off. The bustling of Hyrule market floats up towards the ranch when the wind is positioned properly, as it was that night.

He walked forward, listening to the crinkle of grass under his leather boots, his bare hands – he had lost his gloves long before – resting on his hips as he came to stand before the glistening waters of one of the streams that cut through the lands, this one creating a moat of sorts before the village. Dark could see the bottom clearly, and the silver glint of small fish darting about. Pale light reflected over the surface from the moonlight.

The water rippled slightly around his reflection, which was distorted because the stream was never still. Red eyes, like smoldering bits of coal, looked back at him, a hard scowl residing on the face flickering in the water. Black hair hung in uneven locks around his face, hacked short in the back to prevent his neck from becoming drenched in sweat during the day. Pointed ears were each adorned with a few silver rings, a hand raising to brush over the little bits of jewelry, fingertips feeling the small script – miniscule and only visible when looking very closely – etched into the rings. Despite working with heavy labor for long hours, muscles had depleted quite a bit, leaving him looking rather lithe and feminine in build. His dark clothes were thin and threadbare, his weapons absent, as he had sold most of them off long before in order to purchase a horse from the ranch.

He was no longer Shadow Link, as his master had once remarked… He was Aonon, a meaningless Hylian worker who lived in Kakariko village, earning his keep like the rest of those who labored beside him, in a 'free' Hyrule.

Dark's jaw clenched before he drew in a breath, spitting down at his reflection with malice, only succeeding in disturbing the water and distorting his image further. He looked up, pointedly ignoring his changed form.

His eyes caught sight of the flickering light of torch flames – carried by several men, each clad in thick, silver coats of amour, the firelight glinting on their breastplates. The dark outlines of a pair of horses – one stark white, the other the color of rust – were the center of the small fleet of soldiers, making it obvious that the riders of those horses were of importance.

Dark frowned just a bit as the dancing lights grew closer, the soft pink of royal garments now clearly distinguishable on the rider of the white horse – clearly Princess Zelda. Dark's eyes fastened on the second rider, recognition making his jaw muscles clench once more. He wore a dark green tunic and leggings, a few strands of blonde hair slipping out from the brim of his hat, a sword and shield strapped across his back: the Hero of Time.

He rode with his shoulders square and proud, Dark noted a little dryly, as though he had a deeply respectable purpose. His horse was beautiful – much more so than Terat, his own mount – with a mane of fiery white, sleek muscles working tirelessly under a coat of rust-colored fur.

As the band of travelers grew ever closer, Dark had begun to slink back, not particularly fond of the idea of having the Hero of Time spot him standing in the darkness when he was unarmed. But rather than return to the tavern, or to the small house in which all of the construction workers lived, Dark eased himself behind one of the trees that over-shadowed the small stream, and watched.

The band came to the glimmering waters of the stream, pausing before the sloping form of the small bridge that had been erected to allow passage between the field and the village. Dark could see the scowls on the faces of the front-most soldiers as they headed over the curve of wood, the soft clomp of the horses' hooves loud enough for Dark's pointed ears to catch. The rush-colored horse flicked her tail almost boredly as she marched along side the pure white stallion that the princess rode, the Hero of Time reaching down to pat the side of her neck gently in encouragement of her patience.

Dark spent a great deal of time around his own horse, and instantly recognized the twitch of the horse's ears as a sign that she would have preferred to tear across the field at a gallop, hooves digging up clumps of grass; hence the Hero's small pet – it was rewarding her for resisting the temptation.

The Hero and the princess were glancing at the darkness around them almost curiously, apparently fairly at ease; even so, Dark slunk back a bit more, until he only had a sliver of a view of them, hiding himself fully behind the tree. The guards made a few gestures towards the princess, who gave a nod, shifting so that she could ease down from her mount with one fluid slide, her royal gown rippling around her as though she were clothed with water.

The Hero of Time did the same, dropping to the grass with a crackle of dying grass beneath his boots, gloved hands taking hold of his horse's reigns while a soldier took hold of those of the princess's horse. Now they all traveled on foot towards the sloping, narrow stone stairs that led to Kakariko village.

"We have already secured your lodgings for the night, your majesty," one of the soldiers said, his tone of respectful awe. Dark tilted his head a bit, a rare spark of curiosity rising in him as he watched the band of men and the princess reach the stairs. The horses had to be coaxed to begin to mount the stairs, but they did so with minimal snorting and nickering. They started up the steps at a brisk pace.

Dark moved to get out from behind the tree, reaching down to brush some pine needles from his tunic. If he hastened back to his own lodgings, he could probably get something to eat from Elna, one of the women who kept house for the construction workers. Other than ale, his stomach was empty. He would wait until the soldiers and the princess disappeared into the village before following up after them.

But as the cluster of men reached the first third of the steps, the Hero of Time seemed to pause a moment, turning around to glance back down at the fields. Dark's hand paused in the middle of brushing away a drop of sticky sap that had gotten onto his leggings, his face expressionless as always – save a small flicker of surprise in his smoldering eyes.

The Hero of Time was looking down at him – there was no way, even in his dark garments, that Dark could be over-looked. The blonde man turned to one of the soldiers, saying something that Dark could not hear, even with his sensitive hearing, before he broke away from the group and began to descend the stairs, his chin tipped up as he continued to look directly down at Dark.

Dark felt his fingers twitch at his sides, the natural reaction of wanting to unsheathe his sword surging through him – but was quickly quelled by the fact that he had no sword: no weapon at all. He lifted his face, dark locks slipping back from his eyes so that he could watch the Hylian who had defeated him stride down the steps in his direction.

This man had destroyed Dark's entire life; of course, his life consisted of only one meaning, one objective, but at least he had had that. The entire purpose of Dark's existence had been to defeat him – such a simple task, it had seemed then – yet he had failed… Then, to add to his wounds, the Hero had defeated his master, thereby not only rendering him purposeless, but meaningless as well.

But Dark didn't move.

He could attempt to fulfill his purpose anyway – he could lunge at him before he had time to draw his sword, fasten his hands around his neck, and strangle him. His master wasn't alive to see the victory, and Dark would certainly be killed only moments after by the soldiers, but what did any of that matter? Dark wasn't even a true being; he probably didn't even have a soul. His life meant nothing – and neither would his death.

But Dark did not jump him; rather, he stood perfectly still, his own shoulders held straight and taunt, face lifted in an act of defiance. His hands were clearly empty – it was obvious he was unarmed. Not to mention his strength had vastly depleted after so many weeks away from the room in which he was created. The Hero of Time could slay him with one well-placed swing of his Master Sword.

"I had heard rumors… but I didn't think they were true."

Dark took the slightest of steps backwards at the other male's words, mildly astounded that he could form words; like Dark, the Hero had only been able to make gestures and wordless sounds. But now… he spoke with a rich, masculine voice, but not so much so as to be rough; it rather reminded Dark of the forest from which the Hero had come – fresh, light, but powerful in its own right.

The man continued to walk towards him, stopping when only a few feet lay between them; Dark stared at him, without blinking, studying him with another rare prickle of curiosity.

His hat, which was the same bright, childish shade of emerald as his tunic, was pulled over thick blonde hair – which grew in uneven strands just as Dark's did – which hung from under the pointed hat's brim. His eyes were a deep, watery sort of blue, and extremely expressive, so unlike Dark's eyes. His form was so much like Dark's – thin and almost girlish in nature – but he had kept his muscular physique, his tunic clinging to the obvious outlines of muscles. The flat plane of his stomach, the fitness of his leg and calve muscles under tight white leggings and thick leather boots… If anything, while Dark lost strength, the Hero of Time had gained some.

"I thought you were dead," continued the Hero in his same flat, but not unfriendly tone, both hands – roughened from hours of training, no doubt – resting on his hips, fingers pressed against the low-slung leather belt that was lashed around his middle to hold up a pouch and a dagger sheath.

Dark said nothing, as always; though he would have said nothing even if he could talk. His eyes flickered a bit as his gaze met the Hero of Time's. His eyes grew narrowed, becoming guarded slits of red, as his scowl grew harder; but the Hero only gave a small chuckle.

"Even after Ganondorf is dead, you're still gonna pick a fight with me? Doesn't seem very smart when you're unarmed and out of shape."

Dark for once had a small bristle of annoyance at being unable to speak – had he been able to, he would have given the Hero more than enough prerogative to slay him right where he stood. Hatred, as Dark had never felt before, replaced the emptiness in his stomach. He had no purpose – yet here the Hero was, trying to question Dark's motives. He didn't _have_ motives… he couldn't.

"So you're living an 'honest' life, now?" continued the Hero of Time almost casually, as though trying to engage in idle chit-chat with a normal Hylian, and not a former enemy. His eyes glittered with something like amusement, though it was not mocking. "Is that from wanting to, or having no other options?"

Dark wasn't sure why something like that would make him snap, but it did; he was so unused to feeling anything but emptiness, nothingness… to suddenly have a surge of hatred and resentment rise up in him, so strong… Dark lunged forward, not making a sound, only the whisper of his boots over the grass. His fingertips just brushed over the sleek hilt of the other man's sword, lashed to his shoulder, before the Hero jerked away.

The Hero's hand rose up, moving to catch Dark's hand, but Dark knew what he was doing before he even did; Dark thrust his other hand up, catching the Hero's in a fist and sweeping it away, his free hand once more groping for the sword. The Hero ducked his shoulders back, Dark's hand snatching only air, before a knee was shoved up towards Dark's stomach. But the black-haired male only whipped backwards, his own leg lifting to catch the Hero's and thrust it away. This through the man off balance and he nearly tumbled backwards onto the grass.

The smallest sheen of sweat had appeared on the Hero's forehead, just under the brim of his hat, several strands of thick, dirty blonde hair stuck to his skin because of it. Dark did not seem to be capable of sweating; Ganondorf either saw no need for such bodily reactions as the releasing of heat, or he did not think of them, when creating him.

Dark leapt at him once more, all fists and feet, nearly knocking the Hero to the ground with fury alone – a punch, a block, a thrust of an elbow, a dodge, a duck, another swing, a brush of a palm over a face, a hard punch… Dark caught one of the Hero's fists in his own, twisting swiftly in an attempt to snap his wrist – but he lacked the strength to actually crack bone or tendons, and chose instead to drop his entire body low, a palm catching the ground, sweeping a leg to catch the Hero's, cutting them out from under him.

In the speed that the tussle had begun, it ended; the Hero toppled down on top of Dark, even as the male was twisting on the ground to get out of the way. The sudden, heavy and awkward weight pushed the air from Dark's lungs, limbs tangling with his own. The Hero's solid form was sprawled across Dark's back, leaving the dark-haired male pressed into the grass, straining in a futile effort to escape.

The Hero's hands fastened around Dark's wrists, fists dropping to pin him to the dead – or dying – grass on which they lay. Dark could feel him panting for air, the clink of the Master Sword shifting in its scabbard, and the thick, breathy chuckle that the Hero gave when he had recovered enough to make a sound.

"That was fun," he gasped out, sounding genuinely amused with the situation. Dark twisted underneath him, his hatred becoming a heated flame burning in his stomach, his fingers digging into the earth under his restrained hands. Mocking bastard – first he rendered Dark meaningless, then he dared to toy with him, like some sort of…

Some sort of what? Dark was no mortal – he was nothing more than a clone of the Hero of Time, created to destroy him, so that his master could keep reign over Hyrule, and eventually the entire world. He was created faultlessly, the weaknesses of the Hero not present in him, making him a perfect weapon to be used to slay him. But the wielder of the Master Sword had defeated him, by the skin of his teeth of course, but… it was a defeat nonetheless. Dark had gone from being a weapon, to being a broken weapon. His purpose, as small as it was, jerked from his hands. His master slaughtered. His existence becoming worthless.

"Damn you," Dark snarled out – his voice was soft, not at all thick like the Hero's, it was almost like the trickling waters of the stream, only a few yards away. Before even he himself could feel shocked at the ability to speak, the Hero of time stiffened above him, hands momentarily loosening their holds on his wrists.

The Hero eased himself from Dark's body, shifting slowly as he rolled off, grass staining his white leggings and leaving smears of green, rising once more to his hands and knees. His blonde hair, littered with crisp blades of grass, fell across his face as he looked down at Dark with slightly widened eyes. "You can talk?"

Dark's eyes shot sparks at him, his lips pressed into a tight line of animosity; he did not move to get up, however, and shook his head. The Hero of time had shifted into a sitting position, one knee rising so that he could rest his arm across it, regarding Dark almost critically.

"Why 'damn you'?" he asked softly, a note of curiosity in his tone as Dark eased himself up into a sitting position as well, one palm pressed into the grass in order to support himself as he glowered silently at the other male. The Hero scowled in return, but moreso with a troubled look in his eyes than hatred. As he watched, Dark raised his free hand, fastening his fingers around his own neck, defiance in his blood-red eyes as he did so, his jaw clenching.

The Hero of Time had killed him, rendered him worthless and purposeless… to live a fate worse than death might have been… Day after day, he would rise, steadily building and expanding Kakariko village, a town that would have been in his master's clutches had he not failed. The Hero of Time hadn't killed him – but he had done much worse. He had defeated him.

**DiStOrTeD**


End file.
